


I Shall Make Thee Scream for Me

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: 5+1 Things, Awkward Sexual Situations, Chocolate Box Exchange 2017, Chocolate Box Treat, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Ear Sucking and Licking, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Object Insertion, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Humor, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9558512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: Five times Maia fucked Csevet over the desk in the Tortoise Room, and one time Csevet returned the favor. In which Beshelar learns that when the desk is a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods (missandei)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=theoldgods+%28missandei%29).



> Happy Valentine’s Day, theoldgods!
> 
> Thanks go out to the friend who looked this over for me, whom I'll name at reveals time.

## 1.

The secretary’s desk in the Tortoise Room was small, compared with the massive one that lurked in the rear of the Rose Room. It was not, however, so small that even a tall emperor could not bend his shorter secretary over it and fuck him senseless.

On such occasions, Csevet made certain beforehand to position one stack of letters on each side of the desktop. When Maia thrust at precisely the right angle and with the right amount of vigor, Csevet’s long, lacquered fingernails would dig harmlessly into the paper, not into the charmingly painted surface of the wood. Just now the tips of his nails had broken through a petition from a bidder on a minor project within the scope of the Wisdom Bridge’s construction, as well as a dinner invitation from the Countess Orthevaran. Vocally, Csevet remained as discreet as ever, even if it meant his lower lip would bleed somewhat for a while afterward.

Nor was Maia inclined to much noise during these trysts. Loyal and close-mouthed his servants may have been, but he saw no need to inflict unasked-for intimacies upon them. After all, despite the lateness of the hours when he and Csevet trysted, the desk _was_ close to the door. It was also against a wall on the other side of which was a well-trafficked Alcethmeret hallway, not to mention Lieutenant Beshelar. No matter that Csevet had had a manservant pull the desk a few inches away from the wall, partly onto the thick carpet, so that the one would not bang against the other under … pressure. “To better protect the paint and the wallpaper,” he had said, and the servant did not question the reason.

That said, after nearly a year of such trysts, Maia had grown bold enough during them to address Csevet in a low voice — low enough that Cala on the other side of the privacy screen could hear him speak but not discern his words. In such a voice he now said against the edge of Csevet’s left ear, “One day I shall make thee scream for me while we are at this.”

Csevet’s reply was a quiet gasp, a quiver of his ears that made his silver earrings tinkle, and a tightening of powerful inner muscles that nearly caused Maia to finish on the spot. As Maia caught his breath and straightened his hips from the swerve Csevet had sent them into, he breathed, “Did my words enflame thee, or dost throw my challenge back at me?”

A smile hovered upon Csevet’s lips, even as he worried the lower one with his teeth, but it faded immediately as his hips began to jerk of their own accord and his eyes closed tightly. His movements pulled Maia’s along in their wake, as one piece of machinery does another. Ballocks tightening, thrusts shortening, Maia gritted his own teeth against an untoward outburst and — mindful of his nails — seized Csevet’s hips roughly. Seconds later he was spending copiously inside the one who held his emperor within his body as thoroughly and capably as he held his emperor’s household within his hands.

## 2.

Maia had ordered the privacy screen bought for him some months before while on an imperial visit to Porcharn. The Artisans’ Guild in that country’s capital had been overcome with gratitude and pride, and though the object was well within the budget of an emperor, the gold it earned from the Ethuveraz’s coffers was no small amount to the artisans who had produced it. One could, technically, count the purchase as an act of furthering international relations.

Maia’s first thought upon seeing the screen had been relations of a very different kind. The linen-colored panels, he had mused, would mesh beautifully with the Tortoise Room’s amber décor, and the crimson calligraphy-like marks on the panels would provide tasteful contrast. At the Untheileneise Court, the screen would be regarded as a lovely addition to Edrehasivar Zhas’s favorite receiving room, inspired by his curiosity and appreciation for the cultures of other peoples. Nothing more.

Csevet had of course accompanied him on the journey to manage his schedule and was trailing him in the atrium of the guild hall. Maia spotted the screen, stopped short, and entertained roughly three seconds of lust-fogged imaginings. Then the astringent voice in his head reminded him that he was Ethuverid Zhas and perhaps he should remember that while on a diplomatic sojourn. Quickly, then, Maia began to praise the screen for its beauty and craftsmanship, whereupon the artisan who had taken the lead in its creation launched into a speech. The translator at Maia’s elbow informed him that the artisan was speaking of the cultural significance of the marks and of the color scheme. Maia thanked her and, as the translator was relaying that expression of gratitude to her, chanced a look back at Csevet. He was quietly amused and not much surprised to see how very pink Csevet’s ears had turned.

The screen was installed in the Tortoise Room as soon as the imperial party had returned to the Ethuveraz. The next day, Maia bid Beshelar drag it in front of the desk in order to block the nohecharei’s view of it. It was light enough in weight that the physical effort did not fully explain the beet-like color of that very fit soldier’s face.

“We must express our reservations, Serenity,” Beshelar said thunderously. “You are supposed to remain in the sight of at least one nohecharis at all times.”

“The door will be closed, Beshelar,” Cala said, “and you’ll be standing before it in the hallway, as you have on previous such occasions. On those occasions we averted our gaze and watched the rest of the Tortoise Room. Unless you suspect Mer Aisava of hiding poison or sharp blades in a most uncomfortable place, we do not believe that his and His Serenity’s concealment by the screen will impede you or us in our mutual duties.”

Csevet’s face took on the studiedly neutral look it did when he was trying very hard not to laugh. Maia allowed himself a subdued smile and politely thanked Beshelar for his concern. Beshelar paired his bow of obeisance with a huff, then exited the Tortoise Room. Cala’s expression was bland as Maia and Csevet disappeared behind the screen.

Seven or eight minutes later, neither of them was attempting to suppress voicings of mirth but, rather, those of an entirely different nature.

“Imagine,” Maia said softly in between licks at Csevet’s ears, his words punctuated by his thrusts, “had I informed the Porcharneise lead artisan that I desired her screen for a modicum of privacy while I rooted my secretary?” Csevet made a barely audible whine in his throat and tightened convulsively around Maia, who found himself struggling for self-control.

Over time, after their first nervous and awkward coition, Csevet had enumerated to Maia the various activities he found stimulating. Many of them had shocked Maia at first. Others did not shock, but neither did they appeal. Csevet had assured him that he would never press Maia to perform any of them upon Csevet; indeed, he would leave the initiation of them up to Maia entirely. While certain of them Maia could not imagine himself ever suggesting — over most of these, the specter of Setheris hung heavily for him — the idea of spurring Csevet on with obscene words came to seem harmless enough.

Once he had put the first few clumsy attempts behind him, “harmless” felt like a wholly inadequate word for it.

“Perhaps,” Maia went on now in between pants for air, “I should have demonstrated for them, Csevet? Had servants place the screen in front of thee and me and a piece of furniture that would hold thy weight, shielding us from the view of the others? Rucked down thy fine silken trousers and buried myself in thee then and there? Wouldst have been able to maintain thy composure, think’st thou?”

Csevet replied not with words but by meeting Maia’s thrusts with as much force as Maia put into them. Maia could not elaborate any further upon the lascivious mental tableau he had built, for he was clenching his teeth so hard they ached and he could hear the breath whistling through Csevet’s. Later he would be unable to remember which of them lost control of his hips first; all he could recall was Csevet shuddering beneath him with a voiceless grunt as his own climax bleached the amber of the Tortoise Room to a scorching white.

## 3.

Their very first coupling was one whose timing neither of them could have predicted. After the elaborate bit of dance that was the affirmation of mutual desire between them, the tryst itself began with Kiru averting her gaze while a red-faced Telimezh went to stand out in the hallway. It ended with Csevet using his own handkerchief to mop the desk of his seed, then crumpling it carefully before stowing it in his jacket pocket.

“Why not throw it into the fire?” Maia asked sincerely. “I’ve more handkerchiefs than I know what to do with; I’ll ask Dachensol Atterezh to give thee a stack of them.”

“All of thy handkerchiefs are embroidered with the Drazhadeise crest,” Csevet replied. “I would not presume to besmirch it with … indelicate substances. In any event, I am not precisely a stranger to concealing handkerchiefs so besmirched. It is an utterly unremarkable item to launderers, and it is not as though they can discern one seed-soaked piece of cloth from another.”

Csevet did, however, consult with one of the Master of Wardrobe’s assistants. Before his and Maia’s second encounter, he produced from one of the desk drawers a lengthy scrap of silk, too irregular in shape and too worn in the thread to be of much sartorial use anymore. This he laid over the front of the desk, securing it with a heavy paperweight at either top corner.

Their third encounter was the next night, and Csevet took from the drawer yet another long expanse of worn silk. “How many didst obtain?” Maia wondered.

“Well… every three days, the laundry servants fetch my worn clothes while returning fresh ones to me.” Csevet, leaning on his elbows over the desk, turned his head back over his shoulder to flash Maia a wry smile. “Therefore, I thought four would be a wise number to beg from Dachensol Atterezh’s supplies.”

It was a few months before it occurred to Maia to ask Csevet in his low voice, “Does the silk feel good, Csevet? Rubbing against the underside of thy cockstand each time I rut into thee?”

A gasp, a squeeze, a frantic nodding that did not loose a single hair from Csevet’s tightly pinned braids. Maia licked up the edge of one ear, relishing the stifled whimper it elicited, and then was struck by further inspiration. He paused in his thrusting to slide his right hand around to Csevet’s front. Csevet canted his hips backward to permit access; Maia often stroked him to completion while fucking him. Never before, however, had he gathered up the silk in his hand and wrapped its folds around Csevet’s cock, holding it to him, making a warm silken tunnel of his loosely clenched fist.

Csevet’s breathing grew faster as every thrust from Maia dragged his own cock against the soft, smooth cloth. “But it could not feel as good as thou feel’st around me,” Maia whispered as he tightened his fist around Csevet. “Perhaps as soft, perhaps as smooth, but nowhere near as slick or as hot as thy bottom, or thy mouth. Or as tight. Art so wonderfully tight, Csevet…”

A sharp rale of breath, Csevet’s hips driving the side of Maia’s hand painfully into the desk, a soft tearing noise as green-lacquered nails laid open a third layer of paper. Maia wanted nothing more than to clench his left fist as well and flail the desk with it, but he wanted nothing less than Cala peering around the edge of the screen or Beshelar rushing back into the room. Instead he sacrificed the heel of his left hand to the sharp edges of his nails, leaving both hands throbbing as hard as his ballocks were as the short strokes came upon him.

One final rough thump of Maia’s right hand against the desk, and Csevet trembled hard, sucking his breath in through his teeth. The cloth in Maia’s hand was already warm with the heat of Csevet’s body, but it grew warmer now, and damp. Between his stinging hands and the climax racing through him, Maia barely remembered to hold it in place that it would not fall upon the carpet and stain it.

## 4.

It was some time after the threat, or promise, to make Csevet scream for all to hear that Maia badly miscalculated.

For much of the near-sleepless night that followed, he berated himself: Csevet had told him of Eshoravee, had said there had been previous propositions. Why had Maia not inferred, as would have anyone who was not a moonwitted hobgoblin raised in the arse-end of the Ethuveraz by a drunken brute, that Eshevis Tethimar had not been the only lord to take without asking?

In the moment itself, with neither of them particularly close to release and Maia racking his memory for words that might inspire his lover’s ardor, he remembered only that Csevet had on a few occasions professed a taste for rough use and a hint, only a hint, of degradation. The first words that came to his wholly idiotic mind were, “Have any others had thee over a desk like this, Csevet? A handsome nobleman, perhaps, with a thick cock and a taste for pretty couriers?”

Csevet fell immediately still beneath him, his body rigid, his breathing gone from harsh to barely audible. Maia knew he had misstepped even before Csevet said in a quiet, tight voice, “One did, in fact. Forgive us if we do not find the memory one we wish to recall.”

Though his lungs felt frozen within his ribcage, Maia forced out the apology: “Csevet… I am sorry. I am ever so sorry.” Csevet did not move beneath him; his muscles remained as tight as his voice had been. “Art — are you all right?” Maia withdrew his cock, almost completely limp by now, from Csevet’s body.

Slowly, Csevet straightened up from the desk, then bent again to grasp the waistband of his trousers. He drew them up his legs, enclosed his hips, buttoned them over his softened cock. He did not look at Maia. His spine was ramrod straight, his ears were rigidly set, and his shoulders looked as though they were of stone. Maia dared not lay his hand upon them: he was the source of Csevet’s distress, he intuited, and he could not be the easing of it, not right now.

“We… will be fine,” Csevet said at last, with a faint tremor in his voice. He drew his jacket on then, too — he often did not remove his shirt during their trysts — then turned to Maia and, still not looking him in the eye, executed the deepest bow possible. It was the most formal obeisance short of kneeling or prostration. “Please forgive us our abrupt departure, Serenity. We bid you a good night.”

Maia said nothing in response, only watched with lowered ears as Csevet’s trim and well-appointed figure disappeared around the side of the screen. He heard the door close quietly behind Csevet, then Csevet exchanging a few words with Beshelar, then the smart tap of his heels down the corridor and out of earshot.

“Serenity?” Cala inquired from the other side of the screen, the word quietly, discreetly uttered. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Cala,” Maia said stiffly as he rebuttoned his own trousers. Between his edocharei and Csevet he had fallen out of practice with it, and his hands just now were none too steady. When his fumbling fingers had finally restored him to a semblance of propriety, he stepped out from behind the screen. “Would you, and Lieutenant Beshelar, please accompany us to our bedchamber? We are suddenly quite exhausted.”

“Of course, Serenity,” Cala said, just as Beshelar re-entered the Tortoise Room to set the screen back against the wall.

## 4.5

When Csevet attended upon Maia at the breakfast table next morning, he was dressed as impeccably as usual. Maia could perceive no appreciable difference in how his secretary spoke to him, whether it was about Maia’s schedule for the day, the proper reply to a huffy complaint from a Wisdom Bridge supplier, or a bit of background about a noble family whose patriarch seemed opaque of political intention. But Csevet did not look directly at Maia, his lids were heavy, and the skin beneath his eyes was a dark greyish-blue. He seemed to be keeping his ears up by force of will alone.

Maia, who had slept no better than Csevet seemed to have, found himself without much appetite. As he listened to Csevet’s suggestions he forced himself to take regular bites of his scallion omelet. Being as ill-fed as he was ill-rested would not serve him well in his morning audiences, and an untouched plate would both offend Dachensol Ebremis and cause the kitchen servants to talk. He managed to consume half the omelet before he finally gave up and pushed the plate out of his way.

Csevet’s eyes flicked to the half-empty plate, then to Maia’s face. They did not settle there for very long, but long enough for Maia’s heart to wring afresh at the misery in them. He forced himself to look away as well, to immerse himself in one of the longer letters that had come in that morning, and though he did not quite lose himself in its details he was able to distract himself sufficiently with them.

It was far from the first day on which Maia had had to ruthlessly repress his emotions to execute any of his duties, not even the first such day with the added complication of a poor night’s sleep. His audiences all went well enough, despite the overall sensation he had of sleepwalking through them. In the later afternoon he seized upon the opportunity presented by the cancellation of his final appointment to retire to his bedchamber, where he managed an hour and a half’s slumber before dinner. Upon awakening he felt no more sanguine than before, but his wits were sharper, and he found himself in possession of both an idea of what to do and the resolve to have it done.

After dinner, he sent Cora to Csevet’s chambers with a message requesting his presence in the Tortoise Room at nine o’clock. It was not the usually done thing: while there were evenings that Csevet did not attend upon Maia, it was generally clear before dinner whether or not his presence would be called for later on, for either professional or personal reasons. However, neither was it the first time Maia had sent Csevet such a message, and he did not imagine Cora would take much interest in it once he had delivered it.

At nine o’clock, as Maia sat by the crackling fire in the Tortoise Room and Cala stood in the opposite corner, Beshelar opened the door from the hallway to admit Csevet. He had just bathed; there was not a wrinkle in his clean and pressed garments, nor a hair escaping from his braids and tashin sticks, nor a scratch upon his well-polished shoes. But his eyes were bleak with lack of both rest and peace, and the blue shadows beneath them had deepened.

“Your Serenity wished to see us,” Csevet said in a dull voice, coming to stand before Maia.

“I did,” Maia said plainly, and he watched Csevet’s eyes widen and the life return to them as Maia slid from the chair to the carpet, to his knees. “Csevet… I beg you, forgive me.”

“Ser — Maia. Canst not kneel to thy secretary like this,” Csevet said, voice hushed and scandalized. He dropped to his own knees and took Maia by the shoulders. “Please. Do not abase thyself for me.”

“It is no abasement,” Maia said indignantly. “I have hurt thee, and I cannot bear the thought of it.”

Csevet sighed and gathered Maia to him, though their differences in height meant that it was his head against Maia’s chest rather than the opposite. Maia flung his own arms about Csevet; he would have stroked his hair, but, fearing to dishevel it, settled upon stroking his cheek instead. Csevet’s hands caressed Maia’s back through his jacket and shirt.

“I am not without fault in this,” Csevet said after a few silent moments had passed. “I have been very forthright with thee in describing what I like. I have not been so forthright in telling thee what I do _not_ like. I let thy reluctance to engage in many acts lull me into thinking the latter would be unnecessary.”

“Blame not thyself for that,” Maia said. “I did not consider thy past, outside of … the incident didst describe to me, as a possible source of such dislikes. I should have been more thoughtful.”

“Art not very experienced, other than with me,” Csevet replied. “Nor very experienced in … misfortunes that commonly befall the lowborn.” He gave a soft, bitter chuckle. “Didst not even truly understand what I escaped from, at Eshoravee, when first I told thee the story. And I did, after all, later tell thee I was not averse to a bit of roughness or taunting. Thy words opened up an old wound, and in pain I distanced myself from thee. But had I only been more precise with mine own words, wouldst have known what not to say.”

Maia’s arms tightened about Csevet, and Csevet’s about him. After another stretch of silence Maia whispered, “Might I make it up to thee? Love thee tenderly and worshipfully, perhaps?”

Csevet did not answer for a brief moment. Then he said, “While that appeals to me greatly, would it offend thee were I to demur until tomorrow evening? I slept poorly last night, and I am near to shaking with exhaustion. I fear I would wound thee further by falling asleep beneath thee.”

Maia gave a soft laugh of relief. “I am only slightly more wakeful, in sooth. Tomorrow night would be more than fine.”

He released Csevet, then, and they both stood. Csevet’s eyes were glistening, but they had lost their deadness. He did not bow to Maia this time, but took his hand and pressed his lips to the backs of Maia’s fingers. Maia, who had lost his self-consciousness over the appearance of his hands with Csevet after the twelfth or thirteenth time Csevet had sucked enthusiastically on his fingers, felt flares of very different warmths in his breast and in his loins.

“You will see your secretary in the morning, Serenity,” Csevet murmured, holding Maia’s gaze with his own. “But wilt see thy lover again tomorrow night.”

He did not walk out the door of the Tortoise Room for another five minutes, so fiercely did Maia seize him and so passionately and thoroughly did Maia kiss him.

## 5.

Twenty-four hours later, their mouths were similarly joined as they stood behind the screen. Csevet’s hands went to the buttons of his own jacket, by force of habit, but Maia stopped them with a hand on each wrist. “No… Csevet. I am thine edocharis, tonight.”

Csevet, already flushed pink with desire, flushed red now. He seemed on the verge of scolding Maia that this was no more proper than was kneeling to his secretary. But he said nothing, simply dropped his hands to his sides and let Maia stoop to undo the buttons. He then raised his arms as Maia straightened again, to let him slide the jacket from them.

“Thy shirt, too, tonight,” Maia said, and Csevet once again acquiesced. When his chest was bared, Maia ran an appreciative thumb over one nipple, tiny and pink and stiff, and Csevet shuddered. “I should have thee divest thyself of thy shirt more often,” Maia said, low-voiced, now with a hand on either side of Csevet’s ribs and both thumbs softly stroking his nipples. “Art so lovely with it off.” Csevet closed his eyes and tilted his head back, his earrings tinkling, then sighed deeply as Maia encompassed each nipple in turn with his lips.

Mindful of Cala on the other side of the screen, Maia sucked on them as quietly as possible, pulling back now and again to tickle the crown with the tip of his tongue. Csevet had begun to squirm in Maia’s grip, his nails making white half-moons upon the heels of his hands. When both buds of flesh stood out gleaming-wet, Maia slid his tongue to the very center of Csevet’s breastbone, then began to lick and kiss his way downward. Csevet flinched with a huff of ticklish laughter, then caught his breath in anticipation.

When Maia’s knees landed on the carpet with a soft thump, Csevet’s eyes opened again, and this time Maia was certain Csevet _would_ scold him. But then Csevet’s gaze focused upon him, soft and hot, and with every button of Csevet’s flies Maia undid his gaze grew hotter still.

“So beautiful a cock,” Maia whispered, freeing it from its silk confines, easing the foreskin up and down. “I have not attended to it nearly as often or as thoroughly as I should.” And, with that, he slipped his mouth over the dark-rose head.

Csevet arched his back. He seemed to be struggling not to thrust, that Maia would not choke. He pressed one hand over his mouth to stifle a cry, and with the other he gripped the edge of the desk through the silk. Maia, fearing Csevet’s nails would rend the fabric and the paint below, grasped Csevet’s nearer wrist with his free hand and wove their fingers together. He could feel Csevet’s hand straining in his, trying to keep his nails from scoring the back of Maia’s hand, as Maia worked all of Csevet’s cock down his throat until he was nuzzling fine white curls that smelled of lemongrass soap and musk.

He had taken Csevet into his mouth before, though never for long and never with the expertise Csevet lavished upon Maia. He focused on breathing through his nose, on letting his throat relax, on Csevet’s smell and taste, on how he trembled and how he gripped Maia’s hand. After several minutes he released Csevet’s hand and withdrew his other hand from around Csevet’s cock that he could push Csevet’s trousers down his hips, down to his knees. Minding his nails as always, he stroked the outsides of those strong, lean thighs, then teased at the soft inner skin, then cupped and cradled the hot, tight sac in between.

“I —” The word was spoken breathlessly. Maia looked up. Csevet looked down, eyes dark and hot, and stroked Maia’s bulging cheek. “I don’t want to finish in thy mouth,” he said. “I want to finish with thee inside me.”

Maia pulled off once again but kept a thumb upon the dripping head, stroking it round and round, enjoying the sight of Csevet barely keeping his hips still or his features composed. “Csevet, may I … see thy face, and kiss thee, while I cover thee? Will it discomfit thee, to lie in such a position upon the desk?”

Csevet snorted, and despite Maia’s continued attentions his cock seemed to sag just the slightest bit. “I may have seven years on thee but I’m hardly decrepit.” He stepped out of both trousers and shoes and lifted himself gracefully onto the desk. There he settled himself, drawing up his knees, so that both his bottom and his widely separated feet rested upon the scrap of silk. Maia’s eyes were drawn to his newly resurgent cock, and to the tiny pink opening beneath his sac.

Csevet balanced himself with his hands around his knees, then gave Maia a grin of challenge. “If want’st my back upon the desk, wilt have to put it there thyself.”

Maia found his own face broadening with a grin as he moved forward to capture Csevet’s mouth with his own again. One hand spanned the nape of Csevet’s neck while the other fumbled the vial of oil out of a desk drawer. “Here,” Csevet murmured against Maia’s lips, pulling the stopper out for him.

He winced sharply at the first touch of Maia’s middle and forefinger: the Alcethmeret was, of course, cold, and the desk was on the opposite side of the room from the hearth. Maia did not waste time in warming the oil. His hands already knew how Csevet liked his hole to be circled round and round with a light fingertip until it was twitching; how he savored the initial breaching of it with two fingers at once, in the careful manner he had taught Maia, by tilting himself backward and parting his thighs wider; how to make him bare his clenched teeth by stroking the little swelling inside him just so. When Csevet began to raise and lower himself on Maia’s fingers, cockhead dripping freely onto his belly and thighs, Maia nearly spilled the vial inside the desk drawer in his haste to unbutton his own trousers.

“Wilt waste thy cockstand in thy hand, rather than spitting me upon it?” Csevet gritted out.

“If art not ready _now_ it’ll go to waste regardless,” Maia said desperately.

“Quite ready,” and with that, Csevet grabbed Maia by the lapels and hauled him in close.

“I promised thee tenderness and worship—” Maia began in protest.

“Those are _not_ what I want of thee right now,” Csevet snarled.

It was a rough, wet, fumbling kiss, not unlike — once Csevet had undone the buttons of Maia’s flies — the play of Maia’s hands between Csevet’s legs as he lodged his cockhead against his secretary’s hole. Then he was sliding into satiny heat, opening his eyes to watch Csevet’s screw shut in pleasure, taking one pink ear-tip into his mouth and sucking it until he thought Csevet would actually whimper. He reached beneath Csevet and seized his buttocks to lever him backward, onto the desk as promised, and he set his teeth to nipping the point of Csevet’s jaw as he shuttled in and out of him.

Csevet’s flattened his palms against the desk as his upper body rose from it in an arc. Teeth bared again, he ground the back of his head into the desktop. One spring-green tashin stick tilted awry. Biting back a growl, Maia yanked it out and tossed it to the floor, ignoring the sound of it rolling and a quiet cough from the other side of the screen. He pulled out the other and cast it away as well, then tugged at Csevet’s braids until Csevet’s hair was a disheveled milkweed cloud falling over his hooded eyes and drawn-back lips.

“Gods, just _fuck me,”_ Csevet hissed from between his teeth and from behind the veil of his hair.

Maia had not once relented in his thrusts, but now he redoubled his vigor, grabbing Csevet’s ankles to set his feet upon his own shoulders and bend Csevet double up against him. Csevet answered by levering his hips against Maia’s with the ruthless force of a machine. It was not until he froze, body hovering tight-muscled above the silk, and his release splashed upon his own belly and chest that the desk began to wobble audibly beneath him.

“….Serenity?” came a nervous call from the hallway. But Maia had already tipped over the edge. Spurt after long, deliciously agonizing spurt rose up from his ballocks to surge out of his cock, into Csevet, who trembled around him.

It was not until Maia’s vision cleared that he realized Csevet was shaking not with ecstasy but with laughter. His hand was over his mouth again, and a tear had run down his cheek. Maia buried his face in the crook of Csevet’s neck and began to shake as well.

“I suppose,” Csevet said thickly after a moment, “the desk should have all four legs upon the carpet, not just two.”

“It may be a good idea,” Maia allowed, his own voice muffled against Csevet’s collarbone. “Especially if … we are to repeat this particular act.”

“I have no objections to such a plan.”

Maia, who had learned to read Csevet’s understatements as he had once read Setheris’s law books, drew back that he might smile down upon him. “I still owe thee a bout of tender lovemaking.”

He had also learned to read Csevet’s ostensibly neutral expressions very well. Though Csevet could not in any wise be deemed as tending to mischief, the look in his eyes just now was one Maia had come to think of as _far too innocent by half._

“I will collect on that debt eventually,” Csevet said. “But I am not highly impatient to have it discharged.”

He did, however, accept the most tender of long kisses, after which he gathered up the unsoiled portion of the silk scrap to tend to Maia and to himself, then rebuttoned Maia’s trousers. He dressed again, then, and put up his loosened hair into a simple love-knot. Expressions carefully composed, they both stepped around the edge of the screen.

“Your tashin sticks, Mer Aisava,” Cala said with a most suspicious blandness, holding them out.

“Thank you, Cala Athmaza,” Csevet said just as neutrally, accepting them and working them back into his hair. His face was fiery red once more. So, Maia noted as they all exited the Tortoise Room, was that of Lieutenant Beshelar.

## +1

“I,” Maia murmured against Csevet’s neck just above his collar, “am beginning to feel rather selfish when it comes to thee.”

“Dost not share me with any others,” Csevet murmured back. He was perched on the edge of the desk, fully clad thus far, with Maia standing before him, fully clad as well. “Hast not in a very long time. Thou dost know this, yes?”

“Yes, but it is not what I meant. I meant that … well, it is always me who enters thee, Csevet.”

There was a moment’s silence, then a rather incredulous if quiet, “Have I been giving thee the impression I merely _tolerate_ it?”

“Well, no, but …” Maia trailed off.

“To clarify: I would not be _averse_ to what art thinking of. Just that I have not at all felt cheated in our arrangement.” Csevet brushed his lips against Maia’s cheek. “I do prefer the receptive role, but it’s not as though I’ve never fucked another man before, nor found it pleasurable.”

Maia’s face went hot. “Could we … try that now, here, dost think?”

“I do think, yes.” Csevet’s expression went contemplative. “Of course, wouldst have to balance thy weight differently over the desk than I do mine. Also, if art unaccustomed to having anything inside thee, it takes some getting used to — it will probably not be pleasurable right away.”

“That is fine,” Maia said with a hint of impatience. Even hearing the dry logistics of the matter was making his cock twitch: Csevet, speaking of arranging him over the desk and fucking him in the same tone in which he would make luncheon suggestions for a party of Wisdom Bridge contractors. Maia would never have imagined it could be so arousing.

“All right.” Csevet turned Maia’s head that he could brush his lips against Maia’s, this time, then hopped down off the desk. “Wouldst like me to undress thee?”

“Please,” Maia said huskily.

Csevet relieved Maia of his fine garments with the ease and grace of any edocharis. Then he took out another length of silk from the desk drawer, anchored it in place, and gestured to it. “Settle thy hips fully on the desktop, but at the edge, and straddle thy feet far apart that I may have access to thee. Brace thyself with thine arms against the far edge of the desktop, and take care not to dig thy nails into the paint.”

“Wait… dost not plan to undress as well?” Maia asked querulously. It occurred to him that though he had seen Csevet naked many times now, never before had Csevet seem him completely so — and Csevet remained fully clad in his formal court dress.

Csevet arched a brow. “We shall divest ourself of what we need to, when we need to. In the meantime, we have bid thee arrange thyself over the desk for our pleasure and convenience. Dost trust us, Maia?”

The manner of address made Maia throb hard. From the downward darting of Csevet’s glance and the twitch of his lips, he was absolutely certain it had not escaped Csevet’s notice. “Of … of course,” he said, almost stuttered ( _Edrehasivar Half-Tongue, that’s thee_ ), and hastened to bend over the desk in the manner Csevet had prescribed.

Csevet did not say anything at first, but Maia could hear his breath hitch. Then he felt Csevet’s hands — smooth, deft, warm — stroking his buttocks and the backs of his inner thighs. “Horseback riding agrees with thee,” Csevet said, soft and admiring. “Thy thighs have grown so strong. Thy bottom is so round with muscle. We cannot wait to be inside it.” Maia trembled at the prospect.

He heard the scrape of the desk drawer on its runners, then the soft pop of the stopper coming out of the oil vial. “Know’st this will be a touch cold,” Csevet said. Maia could feel warm fingertips parting his buttocks gently — and then a chilly one at his hole. He squirmed and grunted softly. “Shh, it will warm soon enough,” Csevet whispered, stroking one buttock with the thumb that helped to separate it from its counterpart.

He took the time to caress Maia’s hole thoroughly, circling it, stroking across it, attending to the thin skin just behind Maia’s sac as well. Nerves came to life, nerves of which Maia had heretofore been only dimly aware, and he could feel himself twitching and opening at the touch, his cock throbbing whenever Csevet’s finger moved downward to stroke that patch of skin.

After a while Csevet said in a low voice, “While we are used to long fingernails inside us, we think it might be a bit much for thee at first, in addition to being penetrated at all. The dip pen with its cap in place should suffice as an instrument for opening thee up: it is smooth and rounded, but fairly thick in the barrel. It, too, will be somewhat cold inside thee until it warms. Is this proposition acceptable to thee?”

“Y-yes, Csevet,” Maia gulped.

He heard Csevet opening the drawer again, then the oleaginous sound of the pen being lubricated. When the tip of it rested against his hole, he sucked in his breath.

“Shh.” Csevet was stroking his buttocks again. “Try to relax thy muscles. Just bear the chill for the moment, as thy body imparts its heat to it. It will not be long.”

Maia closed his eyes. The meditative prayer his mother had taught him came to mind, but he caviled at profaning it by reciting it mentally now — truly, Cstheio did not need to see or hear him in _this_ moment. Instead he focused on the rhythm of his breaths, forced his inner muscles to relax against the unfamiliar intrusion, and parted his thighs as widely as the tendons would permit.

As Csevet had said, it was not immediately pleasurable. Maia’s first sensation was that he was in need of a lavatory. He bit his lip and tried to bear it; perhaps Csevet had implied such a phenomenon in his warning. At length, the pen slid mostly all the way in, stopping at what Maia presumed was the cap. “Let thyself become accustomed to the width for a bit,” Csevet said quietly.

There passed a long moment of silence and stillness. The portion of the pen that was inside Maia began to warm, and Maia’s nerves adjusted slowly to the girth. It seemed vast, though he knew from long acquaintance with the pen in its intended use that it was not, and that any cock would be considerably broader.

“All right?” Csevet murmured behind him. Maia nodded. “Good. We will begin to withdraw and insert it, until we deem thee ready for us to breach.” Maia shivered again at the words, then once more as the pen began to slide out of him. The well-oiled friction of it felt different, now that the glass had warmed — not exactly pleasurable, but less uncomfortable.

As soon as it was mostly withdrawn, Csevet began to push the pen back into Maia. The sensation was, yet again, different now, though not noticeably more enjoyable than the withdrawal. But, on its third entry, it seemed to graze something inside Maia that sent a faint jolt through his loins and made his hips twitch against the desk. _It is the same thing that gives Csevet such pleasure when he receives me,_ he thought.

“We shall open thee up with our fingers on another occasion, and thus we will be able to stroke that sensitive little spot more adroitly,” Csevet said. Though he spoke calmly, there was something dark, something predatory to his voice that made Maia think about spending just from the sound of it. The pen began to shuttle in and out of him faster, barely buried in him before Csevet began to withdraw it and barely withdrawn before Csevet began to penetrate him with it anew. “But we do not imagine wilt have cause to complain when we stroke it with our cock.” Maia made a strangled noise against his upper arm.

Five, six, seven more thrusts of the pen, and Maia felt his hips rising to meet it, the way Csevet’s often did to meet Maia’s own thrusts. The rigidity and straightness of the instrument meant it did not reliably touch that place inside him, but if he wriggled just so when it impaled him fully, perhaps every third time it would glance off the sensitive inner flesh, sending more blood surging into his cock. He had begun to rut it against the silk cloth when he felt Csevet pull the pen out entirely and heard it click wetly against the desktop.

Then Csevet’s hands were on his buttocks again, and the object pressed to his hole was softer, warmer — and wider. “Art ready?” Csevet said, low and intent.

“I am,” Maia croaked.

Though Csevet’s cock had never seemed large to Maia — indeed, Csevet had said before he was of average endowment — it was certainly larger than the pen. Even with a fresh coating of oil it dragged painfully against Maia’s inner membranes. Fearful to emit even the smallest whimper and have his nohecharei rushing to his presumed rescue, he brought forth blood from his lower lip in his effort to keep quiet. Once again the thought of praying occurred to him, and once again he shut the thought down in shame. Now, instead, he concentrated on the throb of his punctured lip, the coolness of the desk against his skin, his effort not to scratch its paint.

Then Csevet’s hips were touching his, and he felt the solidity of Csevet’s thighs against the backs of his own. _He is in me to the hilt,_ Maia thought, and quivered.

“Art all right?” Csevet asked breathlessly. Maia nodded. “In sooth?” Csevet pressed, a shade of skepticism in his tone.

“I — I am.” This time Maia stuttered out the affirmation. “Thou…” He paused, then began again. “You feel good inside me, Csevet.”

Csevet said nothing in reply, but his breaths quickened, and his hand stroked carefully over Maia’s braids and more firmly down his upper back. Then he began to withdraw, then to push himself inside Maia again. Once fully reseated, he breathed, “… Good?”

“Yes,” Maia said, no less short of breath.

Csevet seemed to take that word as permission to speed up his thrusts, though he took his time building the speed. For a while there was nothing but his steady plunges in and out of Maia, the slap of skin on skin, the perspiration gathering on Maia’s brow and in the hollow of his spine, the momentum rasping his cock further against the silk. Then the angle of Csevet’s thrust changed, by only perhaps a degree, but Maia stifled another moan against the flesh of his upper arm as the anbaric sensation shot at full strength throughout his loins, even down into his upper thighs.

“As … we promised,” Csevet gasped. Then the tip of Maia’s ear was in his mouth, and Maia feared his own teeth would leave their prints in his arm for his edocharei to see. His hips rose off the desk, fucking Csevet back, squeezing him for all Maia was worth, guiding his cockhead to stroke him in that delicious little spot.

Csevet pulled off Maia’s ear with an unabashedly wet smack. “Salezheio, feel’st so good around us, Maia, thou fuck’st so sweetly…” He began to lick up the side of the other ear, and Maia whined deep in his throat as his flesh contracted around Csevet’s.

The tension of climax was beginning to build in him, as if with the winding of a clockwork’s key. But rather than the familiar feeling of engulfment, of losing himself body and mind within another, the tension spiraled around the sensation of being filled, invaded, plumbed to his depths. He should have felt, he thought, utterly vulnerable: naked, presenting like a she-beast in heat, while Csevet covered him nearly full-dressed. Yet there was no apprehension in it, no more than when his edocharei bathed him, or when he had stood down Ulevis Chavar clad only in a _keb_. There was, he realized with surprise, a power in it instead — and he thought of Csevet receiving him, fierce and hungry and anything but passive.

_I hold Csevet, too. I hold him, just as he holds me._

And then his peak was upon him. He heard Csevet’s breathless “I can’t last — oh, _gods_ —” then felt Csevet shuddering against him — and Maia himself was shooting seed all the way across the silk, pulse after pulse, seemingly without end, a loud cry ringing in his ears, until his hands were shaking and his legs were shaking and he imagined the desk collapsing beneath him in a heap of splinters and he gave not one damn.

_“Serenity!”_

Maia had never known Csevet to use profane language except in the heat of passion, but from behind him came a crisply articulated hiss: _“Shit.”_

“Serenity, are you well?” Beshelar demanded from the other side of the screen.

“We believe he is … quite well,” Cala said delicately.

“Er,” Maia mumbled. “Did the desk rattle, Csevet?”

“No. Thou cried’st out, actually,” Csevet said very quietly as he eased himself out of Maia. “Perhaps wilt want to reassure the lieutenant that art not harmed?”

“We are well, Beshelar,” Maia called out, cringing at how his own voice shook.

There was a moment’s silence, then a reply of “Serenity” that was gruff even for Beshelar before the door opened and closed again.

Maia sighed, then straightened up. “So much for a sweet aftermath.” He flinched at the sticky feel of Csevet’s seed running from him; it felt as though there were so much more than, logically, he knew there to be.

“I have little cause to complain,” Csevet said as he gathered up the silk from the desk. “Turn around?” Maia did, and Csevet dabbed his own spendings from the cleft of Maia’s buttocks and his inner thighs. “Not of the coupling itself, and even much less that I seem to have won a wager between us, of sorts.”

Maia drew his brows together. “What wager was that?”

“Didst promise some weeks back wouldst make me scream one day as fucked’st me over the desk. Things did not quite turn out as planned’st, did they?”

“Not quite,” Maia said. He smiled, but did not burst out laughing, though it was night and therefore there was unlikely to be anyone on the other side of the wall but Beshelar to hear.

He was overcome, momentarily, with a wistfulness that he could not in fact burst out laughing, as lovers might do in the aftermath. He thought of all the vacant bedchambers throughout the Untheileneise Court, empty suites where his nohecharei could stand in the parlor while he and Csevet loved one another in a great canopied bed that would not rattle against the floor or threaten to give out under their combined weight.

And he sighed once more as Csevet helped him dress. Had there been any way to occupy such a suite without providing grist to the Court’s ever-turning gossip mill, surely Csevet would have seized upon it long ago. Maia reminded himself, as he had done for more than a year now, that he was an exceedingly fortunate man: in power, in wealth, in health, in loyalty, in friendship, and in love. With that immense good fortune came immense duty. And the well-being of the Ethuveraz came considerably before the very risky luxury of marneise cavortings in a comfortable bed.

“Why sighest so?” Csevet rose on tiptoe to tuck a few stray curls back into Maia’s braids and readjust his tashin sticks. “Hast never before looked so woebegone afterward. Did the receptive role not agree with thee?”

“No!” Maia whispered hastily. “It agreed with me very much.” He shook his head and smiled. “I was lost in thought. It is nothing, Csevet.”

Csevet settled back down upon the soles of his feet, then smiled up at Maia. He raised his arm again and cupped the side of Maia’s face, and Maia turned his head to kiss Csevet’s palm.

“Tomorrow night, again?” Maia asked. “Roles to be determined as the whim strikes us both?”

Csevet gave him the full bow of deep obeisance, but when he straightened up from it his face was soft, his eyes alight. He took Maia’s hand in his and kissed his knuckles, then whispered, “I am, as always, entirely at Your Serenity’s service.”


End file.
